Day: 49

intense anxiety (family/holiday/finances)--diarrhea and nausea resulting from stress--fitting for the last day of the year from hell--have to smile--still, I am thankful that my internal mood/wellbeing remains steady/strong/healthy--there is no darkness originating from within the brain, which is remarkable considering that the current stress makes reading impossible and eating undesirable

anxiety under control with meditation--an old practice that has always paid dividends that I abandoned when times were good--I continue to watch my brain, my internal compass and regulation and I am thankful and grateful, circumstances aside, my mind feels grounded, rooted in the storm--humility feels good--to resist not my failings and weaknesses--nor to judge them--my anxiety keeps me company, a trusted companion--a teacher--kind and gentle with the lesson--waiting for me to acknowledge and accept--willing to stay with me for as long as necessary--how many friends can we say that about

Day: 48

completely normal upon waking--anxiety intense (employment/money issues) but mood is clear, steady--sensation on crown of head remains as from the first day--music and poetry remain other than before but closer to premed status than a few weeks ago--sexual function is within an acceptable range, which is to say everything is working as it should, although the meds continue to make orgasm slightly more difficult than before and it is clear why anti-depressants have been used to treat premature ejaculation

on the eve of seven weeks, the meds are all but transparent and unless I knew I was taking them, I think it would be hard to know that anything was operating on cognition and perception--I am aware of changes in music and poetry and sexual function only because I have watched so closely--if I had simply woken today with no knowledge of taking meds, I don't think I would give much notice to these slight changes as they exist today--my personality remains somewhat detached from emotional minefields; and circumstances that in the past would have created turmoil are handled without consternation, and as mentioned before, on an analytical and logical level more so than an emotional plane--my emotional register remains truncated on both the top and bottom end, although I am not certain to what extent--the range appears to be expanding, albeit more slowly than a few weeks ago

stress continues to grow through the day (holiday stuff)--rather intense--feel physically ill--I mention this only in relation to mood/illness/darkness--stress notwithstanding, mood remains unaffected--my stomach is in knots, yet attitude/mood/well-being/mental state is perfectly normal/steady--external stress and inward mental health may overlap, but in my case, the overlap is so small as to be insignificant and I would even venture there is no overlap at all

Day: 44-47

day forty-four:

nothing of significance to report--emotional normalcy


day forty-five:

increasing financial pressure--emotions within healthy and normal range


day forty-six:

financial pressure intense--mood remains steady and normal--any thoughts of despair are tied to external circumstances--internal functions of the brain working as they should


day forty-seven:

financial pressures continue to mount--stress on all fronts--meds are working as they should--no complaints there--there is the situation and there is what we think of it, the latter being the greater or more dangerous

as the pressure grows to find work, rather intensely, I'm watching my internal compass/mood--it seems strangely unaffected, which is to say, mood is steady and consistent, neither up nor down--almost as if my demons have stepped aside and are watching with amusement another act upon the stage--still, although I feel in hell, under holiday assault, my mind and mood remain clear and steady--I am more convinced than ever that certain illnesses of the mind (clinical depression in particular) have, at least in my case, a life beyond external circumstances--or at least an origin beyond environment--and I am dubious as to what extent external factors (personal and professional) augment the illness, if at all--the muddiness, at times, is separating mind induced depression from the depression of the brain/illness--two rather different things that at times are difficult to distinguish in the way that colors are hard to delineate in shadow

Day: 42-43

A heartfelt thanks to all that have followed and encouraged me these last six weeks. I've read every comment and been grateful beyond words. Wishing you all Happy Holidays!



day forty-two:

perfectly normal--equanimity in adversity


day forty-three:

am: a sense of calm, of equanimity again--feels good to feel good or simply to feel within a healthy range of emotion, to be undisturbed, within reason, of adversity or conflict or uncertainty

on good days, like today, there is work to be done too--memory is a fickle companion, so on good days, days of sun, the work is to bask, to store the memory as one would store grain, to know we will need the granary in time--the work is also of separation too--to stand outside the calm, however thankful and filled with gratitude, but to stand outside of it, to enjoy it like a passing river from the bank

Day: 41

am: morning perfectly normal, which only serves to highlight the last couple days--to know what is a disease of the brain and what of the mind becomes difficult and, to some extent, there seems to be some connection between the two as if one feeds the other--on good days, like today, I must remind myself that the real work is on the bad days and to remind myself that despair will work against any and all effort--that in these moments of darkness I must create that separation that allows me to stand outside of disease, to know there is a part of me the disease cannot touch--or so this is what I tell myself--on good days--to remember on bad days--because, on bad days, I won't believe it

Day: 36-40

day thirty-six:

single best day so far--creative writing feels fully returned--mood consistent, strong and good all day long


day thirty-seven:

upon the waking there is nothing other than a sense of complete normalcy--no sense of being drugged--mood steady, neither high nor low


day thirty-eight:

nothing of significance to report--meds feel transparent--orgasm remains possible although more effort is still required--levels of irritability expanding--emotional response still exhibits a degree of blunting--financial/employment pressures clearly felt and growing--like a low pressure system hovering--preoccupation dampens desire to read but not the need to piddle around accomplishing nothing--escapism sought in mindless games and sexual fantasy--appetite appears to have returned to normal premed status--still leave my iPod at home whereas before I never went anywhere without it, not even a trip of two miles


day thirty-nine:

after two days of slightly elevated mood, two days of slightly depressed mood (38-39)--nothing external to explain movement of mood, which again, seems to operate on its own--today is slightly more intense than yesterday--the only metaphor that is working is battle/war, which is to say, I must see the mood as other, as something I can achieve separation from, that there is an it and there is a me and if I think in terms of battle, that I am at war, then by definition, there are two--and if I can establish that there are two, the mood and me, then I can take up arms as me and as against the mood, I can create that separation that is absolutely necessary--if I am unable to create this separation and the mood is viewed as all encompassing, that I am the mood and the mood is me, that there is nothing other, then this is a very not good thing, a very slippery slope to despair, a place I would wish upon no one--to continue my battle metaphor, whereas a few days before there was the shield and the unseen archers, today, ground troops have stormed the castle and hand to hand combat engaged, sword to sword, shield to shield, a cacophony of metal and wood, of flesh and blood and bone, of cries and grunts, gasps and gritting, of sights forever stained on the map of memory


day forty:

levels of irritability have returned to premed levels (39-40)--sadness returning--rolls in like a fog--or perhaps one wakes to the fog, which has come of its own accord, some secret alchemy of the psyche, some dormant demon biding its time, finding a way around or under or through the wall of meds--how does one go from the elevated mood of 36 to the depressed mood of 40--mood remains a mystery beyond my powers of reason

depression comes in two varieties--one from the brain and one from the mind--sometimes the line becomes blurry when one is fighting a two front war--the meds help directly on one front and indirectly on the other

this sadness is of a different nature than before--there is a seriousness now, as if the sadness has matured, grown deeper roots, stands more patient, content to work like wind and water against cliff and rock--life seems as something that was, not something that is or will be--diaphanous dreams--like fiction

the sense is one of fading--I don't know how else to explain it--as if one were nothing but memory, a collection of stories that in time grow less clear, dim, forgotten in the whirl of clock, those unsilent sentinels watching with tick and tock, eyes in every room

mood continues to fluctuate--image of sheets on a laundry line, at the mercy of the breeze--to observe these changes is nothing short of bizarre--these are not major shifts--the range is much more narrow--there are no highs--there is normal and there is low--unipolar one could say and between normal and low stands not five minutes, either way

last month I was reading whole books--now, it seems all I manage is a page or part of a page and even to open a book I have to make the agreement that I will read at least a paragraph--my mind is moving again--I have my creativity back--but something else has also returned

the mind seeks a singular object of focus and then locks in on this object with absolute concentration, a blurb of an idea, like the moment a baseball makes contact with a bat, and this blurb is played over and over again--I suspect some vestigial instinctual survival mechanism is at play, but I'll be damn if I know, other than it happens and it has happened for a very long time--and in this space of singular focus and concentration, nothing can penetrate--and so in this way, in this mentally numbing way, the way a single strong signal can override every other signal, there is a sense of preservation or safety, however illogical, however false, the sense of protection is there--these moments occur in bed--morning and night--before sleep and before waking--during the day, my mind just runs and runs and runs

705: neither nor either

from Em's journal:

When we are together, time slows down while simultaneously speeding up. An afternoon seems both but a moment and forever, being neither nor either. It is as if, when we are together, we step into another dimension of time, a place where time is different or perhaps a place outside of time, a place of no time, for it seems as if time is not moving at all, as if when we are together, we step into a timeless room and only when exiting do we then know of time again, of how much has passed and even if the passing has been a whole day, for the life of me it seems mere minutes. Is this Love or Madness?

704. unspoken

To hold him in his state, a temporary fullness of fruitful ripeness, warm as evening sun, was to hold something like a dream. Not that the holding was not real or imaginary or fanciful as much as what was held conferred some edge of the tongue significance, the kind that is noticed across the table by a smile, or a look in the eye but is never discussed over bread, maybe wine, but never bread; and then, even then, no matter the head nodding and stories bartered, there remains an uneasiness, as if what one held in heart, mind and memory was air so rarified that to think another, another so close could know, seemed not possible. Or so one wanted to believe, or protect, the rarity, for if it was not rare, but instead common, so common that another would know, could know in just a few words, well, then as dew taken by a rising sun, so too this sumptuous thumping, of a chest expanding and perception changed such that no trifle could trifle. And so some things remained unspoken.

703. red ink

In the mornings, after coffee, they would clean the table, which sat before morning sun, beams slatting though the pane. The table was of wood, old with the scars of time, of others who have lived here, who had breathed this air, seen these woods and, perhaps too, sat across from each other in the mornings, content in silent company. Upon this table she would lay parchment and he would gather his pens, some of blue ink, some black, but his favorite was red and with red ink he would write. He preferred red he said because words were living things and ink, he felt, was as blood to this life, to their ability to stir the imagination, to inspire, to make, he once said, one fall in love with life, all of life and death too.

Upon the table, cleaned of breakfast, if breakfast had been eaten, and often, it was not--just coffee. But upon this table of wood, as if the beams held history or story within their beams and to sit before them, to rest arm and hand as upon a pier, there would be an opening, a gateway to a thought. And that thought, like a seed, would be all that was needed. Just that. Just a little push to get the blood flowing. She watched all this with the patience of a spider, watching the furrow on his brow, the movement of hand, the painterly way his fingers held quill, and quill she thought was appropriate for what she saw was as flight, of hand or imagination or both, there seemed to be what she could only describe as a concert in how he wrote and he seemed as absorbed as a conductor, aware of his audience only before and only after but so consumed in the writing as to be other, someplace she could only imagine, someplace where magic happened, someplace she knew, not from words, not even his pen.

She knew this magic, this place from mood and gait and smile and ease and hug and kiss and the gentle way he looked upon her as one looks upon the only object of desire, and he felt childlike, as she did, in this looking, as if the weight and gravity of age were suspended, as if they had entered a room off to the side, as if in this room they were stealing kisses to the sound of distant voices and the picking up of plates and the sound of silverware finishing dessert. In this place, she felt his soft lips part and the tenderness of that touch, that moment, of his warm and subtle wetness of life, as his tongue traced the outline of her lip and their breath felt warm in the confined space, but above all, she felt his touch not in flesh, but in the choice, the presence, not in the holding but of the holding and it felt alive, she felt alive as she did not when he was not there, not holding her, not looking upon her and this life felt as if a light was shining, the way one feels a warm light in winter, the amber glow of casement from a distant cottage as snow falls upon the sleigh and horses bray and neigh and the feeling of movement by horse feels of life, unlike movement by mechanicals. Watching him felt like that. Warm as wool. As wool dusted with snow. As hands held under blanket, in the back of a sleigh.

702. clothes

Her clothes were on the floor, on top of his. Thrown, not folded. Thrown in the way one remembers not the throwing, thrown in the way a tree throws autumn leaves to the wind, abandoned one could say, tossed with haste, without care, a testament, or perhaps evidence. His shirt fell first, empty sleeves now at the bottom of the scrum. Then pants still belted, heavy denim, male heft, the smell of him as wood and sweat, of a certain sweet musk neither dirty nor clean, neither child nor parent, not even of earth or sky. He smelled this way. Not so much intoxicating as otherworldly, but not so much as otherworldly as someplace secret, like a hidden cave or an undiscovered lake upon the mountain, of air not breathed before, of skin warm and supple, slightly sweaty, a mixture of salt to the tongue and of eyes drinking, thirsty as if sight itself in the dim light could quench a parch not known of lip or finger, neck or thigh, breast or nipple.

And then, as if children dancing as they saw their parents dance, her blouse sat upon his denim, not with force, or command but not demur either. More like a feather, or a bird, or a balloon come to rest, softly and the hint of lavender was as warm air, buffeting what was not masculine or rough or hewn but the opposite of those things, of what moved not as water but more like milk and not so much like milk as like cream, a certain languor, purposeful, mindful, but not with agenda, not with device or artifice or manipulation, not even subtle manipulation, or even subconscious machination for the falling was as light upon the floor. A warmth like that. Quiet like that. Natural as that light from the window. The light of a blue sky, of a day where flowers hue and breezes run like recess.

This was before and the night was still and silent. The sheets warm of body. His breathing steady in peaceful sleep. The clothes, too, looked peaceful in the moonlight, looked in their tangle as canvas discarded and she thought of painting, of the painting that happens before the canvas, implied with brush and stroke, but still she wondered, what is a painting, what would it look like without the canvas. Can it be seen, this canvasless painting. Can it be known, to stand before the medium of cloth and to know what is seen is but a mirage, a mirror, only a finger, pointing to something else, as if the painter were mute, the artist speaking with sweet oil a language not of sight or touch or any sense. It was like that, this sitting, in the quiet, looking upon their clothes.

Day: 35

reader alert: I opened the barn door to one metaphor and got stampeded


under circumstantial assault, unrelenting waves of negativity, doom and gloom, sky is falling, I am able to think clearly, rationally, not completely inured, but calloused, or numbed/calibrated to the emotional vicissitudes, not immune or unassailable, but bearable--like a cold winter day with a good coat--still cold but survivable--still, effect is cumulative--damage unseen--body blows to the psyche cannot be dismissed or underestimated

as weeds multiply faster than I can pluck them, as the task seems impossible, that the corner ahead appears as far away as it did an hour ago and the driving endless--these are the days where the meds can only do so much--and one must focus not upon the day or even the hour, but focus on the next step, just that step--still thoughts come like arrows beyond the horizon, origin unknown, turning blue sky dark--but I have a shield--I can lift it--protect myself--I can do this till gravity drains the sky blue again--and I can stand with my arrowed shield--and take breath--fill my lungs--let the sun warm my face--and know, if necessary, I can do it all again, and again and again--not forever, only again--to raise shield against raised bow until the archer tires--I have the endurance of a marathon runner--this is what I tell myself

the imagery here in neither affected nor insignificant--I think in images--I process in images--thought arises in my mind as images before emotional translation--premed, the image was of sword to shield (KKB series)--post-med, of arrow to shield--there is some measure of comfort in the progression--on several levels

I preside over the kingdom of my mind--thoughts present themselves as strangers bearing gifts--I can accept some, reject others--stewardship--ownership--this task cannot be delegated--cannot be taken lightly or haphazardly--nothing less than the kingdom is at stake

each victory, no matter how small, is consequential, each a brick in the fortification--we build on good days and not so good days--ever observant--ever vigilant--there is no other architect--no other paymaster--no other dreamer--this is it--this work--now--this moment, as every moment is this moment--so we lift another brick, apply mortar, watch the plumb line--one brick at a time--in this way we move forward--and rebuild our life

__________

today was the first day tears returned to my eyes--the emotion was genuine and I could have cried tears of joy for having the ability to cry returned to me--as my active/imaginative mind returns (good/bad) I have noticed that my reading has slowed down to pre-med levels and I am jumping around between books again, as I did premed--I believe this behavior is directly related to thought production--in the med induced state, where thought was blank, I read and read and read (I'm almost finished with 2666, which is 900 pages)--as my active mind returns, I find that again, as before, as soon as I start reading, my mind goes into hyperdrive and the ideas from the text branch into dozens of ideas, so rich in ideas I feel the need to stop, as if eating decadent chocolate and one bite is all that one can take--rich like that--I am also finding my mind is moving again as it did before, which is to say thought is flowing freely--and this is both a blessing and a curse--or I should say, this is where the work lies--in working with my brain as it is wired, using it as a tool rather than letting it use me--for the record, although thought is returning to premed levels of activity, there remains a certain emotional blunting, less than before, but still present--this blunting, as evidenced by the tears today, is and has been slowly receding--again, I am thankful and fearful

also with regard to reading, plot again is slipping to an unimportant device and again the fear of finishing a book, of ending it, is returning--premed, I felt as if books 'being' read were alive in a way that books having been read were not--and I preferred to have my books living--to have them waiting for me--still holding some treasure of pages unseen--in the med induced state, the desire was simply to read for story, for plot, to read fast and to finish--to know the book, to summarize it for value, then move on to the next book--likewise, I have again started taking an active interest in vocabulary, stopping to look up words, whereas in the med induced state I plowed past them, not caring if I learned them or not--like speed bumps to move over as quickly as possible

one thing I have only lightly touched upon, namely because it has not been a factor, is energy levels--they have remained remarkably consistent throughout the entire process and I have noticed no change between now and then--I do feel better, mentally, and this leads to more activity, a greater sense of drive, to do things, but the foundational level or levels of energy, as far as I can tell, have not been altered in any significant way outside of initial symptoms of drowsiness, which have sense faded away

poetry remains elusive and music, although making some progress, is still not to premed levels of enjoyment, which I suspect is tied directly to the emotional blunting--as in the last week or so, there is no sense of being drugged or on meds and in an odd, perhaps ironic way, considering my initial views on meds, I almost feel naked, or left to fend for myself, as I cannot overtly tell that the meds are active--I know they are from what I have documented, but without this documentation, I would begin to fear that their efficacy was fading, fading as surely as the side-effects have faded--funny how the mind works--or perhaps just how mine works--sometimes I wish I thought less, questioned less, looked less and just lived

Day: 34

my thoughts below are just that, my thoughts and observations, and as such, as all thoughts and observations, represent only a part of the whole and when dealing in parts, one can be mislead as to think the part is the whole or even that the part is the majority--I write what I write without filter, without edit, in order to document--some of what I document is insignificant, but it is impossible to tell in the moment without the benefit of time to judge what is important and what is simply a passing mood state, normal as sunshine--what is written below is my thinking out loud, of trying to capture, as it happens, various mental states that may or may not be related to the meds--but all the same, for the sake of completeness, to the best of my ability, to capture, to document, to amass all data without critical or editorial influence--having said that, as of this morning, I feel as I have the last few days, which is to say perfectly normal with an expanding emotional range, which is both pleasing (a return to my old self) and a concern (a return to my old self)


odd and interesting start--I don't know how to describe what is occurring--there are very discrete, and short-lived, moments, these moments appear as an image in my mind and a hollowness in my chest, which I can only describe as staring into the abyss, of being on the edge of darkness as on the edge of a cliff, at night, wind blowing, everything shades of blue and there is a very real sense of being one step away, one step from the ravine, and there is swirling and my hair is longer than before, like a flag in the wind, pulled forward and I am wearing a greatcoat and it too is flapping in the wind, toward the edge, toward the bottomless ravine--these moments, and they are just moments, perhaps less than a second maybe a little longer, are as clear as memory of yesterday--when these moments occur, when the images appear in my mind, there is nothing else and the feeling is the same as when caught timeless within a movie, completely suspended from time as we know it, absorbed completely, in every literal sense--these moments are more lucid than a dream state, even more alive than just a memory although I am not sure exactly what that means other than to say, these moments, these images, experiences, are beyond the clarity of normal thought, as if something more than just thought

the second odd occurrence, and I wonder if this is not somehow related to the above, there seems to be some overlap--and the feeling is as a car that is starting and stopping--running perfectly fine one moment and then coughing and hiccuping the next, or simply dying, the engine cutting off unexpectedly, just dead, and there is an eerie quiet in the stillness, as when coasting or gliding--what I am referring to here, again, are very discrete moments, but so unlike anything I've ever, at anytime, experienced, as to be notable and noticed, to have turned down a street I've never been down before--I'm beating around the bush, no pun intended--the fact of the matter is, for the first time ever, a sexual thought occurs without any corresponding physical reaction and the only way I can describe it is the way music over the first thirty days simply fell flat, no emotional response whatsoever, rendered, it seemed, as if I was completely tone deaf--and in this way, these very discrete, very short-lived moments exist and I note them only by contrast, by contrast of all my life--and to note this change, or this event, events, after coming off the last thirty days, is frightening--not panic inducing, but as if hearing a siren, a tornado siren, wailing and one becomes alert, sober, concerned and there is that interminable plaintive wailing and the uncertainty of what is to come, if anything is to come at all, and there is nothing but the waiting and watching and listening as the wind picks up and the skies darken and trees moan, scratching against the house

the third event of note: sensation on the crown of my head--last night, waking as I did with restless dogs, slipping back into sleep, the sensation was more acute than at anytime since the very first night and the sensation felt more elongated than circular, more like a knife edge than dull pressure, more like fire than ice, as if the top of my head were about to erupt, as if lava flowed under my scalp--the sensation remains today, more acute than before, less benign or so it seems--a constant companion

Day: 31-33

day thirty-one:

building upon the last two days, a sense of complete normalcy--imaginative creative thought feels as before--sexual function too, as before--only the slightest suppression of appetite--only the sensation on the crown of head remains the same--emotional range is slowly expanding--feels healthy, as if calibrated correctly--levels of irritability feel correct, which is to say neither blunted with drugs nor out of control as before


day thirty-two:

again, feeling perfectly normal--emotion appears to be operating within a healthy range, albeit somewhat limited than before but greater than recent weeks


day thirty-three:

as I regain more and more of my former sensibilities the real work begins, of working on my own mental processes, working on the awareness of emotion, of that charge of energy as it arises, learning again to see it as biological, as other, as a force/tool to be understood and if not understood, to be treated as one treats a wild animal, with respect, of appreciating the beauty without getting too close, arms length from danger--learning again to weed weeds, to see weeds as weeds, to have the courage and wisdom to pluck them from my daily life knowing that the plucking today is just the plucking today, that tomorrow, and the day after and the day after that there will be more plucking and that in fact, for the rest of my life, there will be plucking--but there will also be watering and planting and the beauty of flowers seen and felt and smelled and the peaceful quiet of sitting in a garden tilled, of remembering the feel of soil on the hands, under the nails, of that wonderful dark dampness of fresh turned mulch, of placing a seed into the ground, covering it, watering it--there will be days like that too--but not without effort--the pail must be taken to the river, filled, carried back to the garden, again and again--and one must know that this is life, that these moments, these steps, each step, each drop of sweat is life--that there are not two lives we have--that there is not another life waiting to be lived only when, only if--that this is it--that the ordinary is everything--that even in a sip of fresh coffee everything is contained, nothing is lacking

701. evenings

In the evenings they would sit on the porch, of the cabin, in the mountains. The night air was cool and the sky was filled with stars, so many stars one could walk the grounds without additional light. From the woods, unseen, were birds, beautifully strange songs, and each in their own rocking chair kept metronomic rhythm, just the soothing sound of wood rocking and birds singing and a coolness of air that refreshed, purifying the lungs and body and mind. Rocking could do that. Rocking in silence, a silence natural, not imposed, a silence whole in itself, a place where words could add nothing, and so nothing was added, just a gentle rocking, on the porch, under the stars, to a chorus of birds.

Their chairs were side by side and across the divide, as a bridge across a river, or a chasm, or even across time, perhaps beyond time, perhaps in that magical space where nothing is wanted, nothing is needed, where there is both a sense of lightness and satiety, of wonder and wisdom, across this place, without a word, their arms reached and their hands found each other and there was a holding to hold in the way that neither is held, neither holds, for the twining of fingers and the warmth shared, on that porch, to the gentle rocking of wood upon wood, was something ineffable, a place where one could believe in the soul, believe that good would triumph over evil, believe in something more than flesh and bone, pain and sorrow.

700. waking up

She woke by morning light where white sheets looked gray and the only sound that could be heard was his gentle steady breathing. She ran her fingers through his wavy hair without waking him, his face childlike in slumber, a postcoital peace, the charge of heat releasing, it seemed, even subconscious stress, a release like diving, of those moments of flight, falling in adrenaline, every pore alive, sentient, electrified. And then the water, the embrace. The parting of ocean, consumed in the cool sea for what was masculine above is feminine below and where the waves might whip in anger and slap the wind, below was quiet, peaceful, embracing, embryonic.

She pulled the sheets to his knees and his skin looked like a placid lake in the gossamer light. He was young she thought, younger than she was and his body held youth in his muscles, even in slumber not a wrinkle, skin glove tight over muscle, a fluidness of flesh, even now as before when his mechanics were not mechanical, he moved not with starts and stops, his brow showed not the effort of trying but he was as the wave to the ocean, rising and known but not separate, not something other and as she looked upon his body, so peaceful, she wondered how he did it, how he was able, so young, to move without stutter, to move not as him and her, not as one upon the other, not even as hand reaching for hand. He moved with the grace of a dolphin and she was sea. Again and again he rose. Again and again he glistened in air, leaping and then plunging again, a joy without ends as if joy itself were the only object, as if joy were a circle with no beginning or end, as if he were able to bring her into that circle and what was him and what was her was as indistinguishable as the wave that slips back into the ocean, rising again and falling, known without separation, where no dividing line could be known between where ocean ended and wave began.

She looked upon his maleness, shape, contour, texture and in this state of repose, where she was able to look without observation, without touching, she thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen without any sure grasp on why or how, as if beauty was self-evident, beyond logic or reason or explanation, discourse or debate. She closed her eyes and bent her head and drew breath as one draws upon a flower. And as she breathed him, as his scent entered her nose, her body, it also entered her mind, that this was him, this sweet, salty, musky maleness was him and in the inhaling, as if consuming what could not be seen, he was now in her, in her mind, memory, senses, a signature it seemed, and it occurred to her in this dawning light, before he had awakened, his hair wavy with sleep, his nipples erect in the cold, his torso statue tight, that he was a part of her now, in some way, just this morning, just these moments of looking, of smelling, in some way he had not been before, as if another layer of him now existed, another depth that was hers and hers alone, stored away in what he would only ever know as the smile he saw when she kissed him awake.

Day: 29-30

day twenty-nine:

felt perfectly normal all day long


day thirty:

feels as day twenty-nine, which is to say as normal as I have felt in recent memory--yesterday I wrote a short piece that was written in the way I wrote premed, that is, it was written from a place of imaginative flow--and this is a very different sense than the first twenty-eight days--again this morning, although I have not written, ideas are flowing again, imaginative thought is again occurring, not exactly as before, but to flow at all is a significant positive step--virtually every side-effect, to the best of my awareness is, to one degree or another, in retreat--sensation on the crown of my head, however, remains consistent

in order to understand change, a basis must be established, a consistent theme, a baseline upon which any variation will be self-evident--reading, the way I read, my relation to words, to sentences and paragraphs, to works as a whole gives me that opportunity--as my creative imaginative ability has slowly started to return I have also noticed a return to old reading habits--individual words are important again--plot is not or I should say less so--appreciation of the beauty of prose is returning--reading pace has slowed--ideas again are emerging within the reading--the urge to buy books, to own them, has returned as too the desire to spend time in a bookstore

this evening, for the first time in thirty days, listened to music and felt, what exactly I can't pinpoint, but I felt something that before was not there--and it felt good--I can only describe the feeling as a sense of recovery, of return, of finding what had been lost, of tasting again the first fresh fruit of summer--but the feeling is also one of relief and gratitude, to know music as a gift, not a given--and there is too a sense of humility but not so much humility as what I would call the opposite of hubris, which is often seen as humility but the feeling is more subtle than just plain humility and feels more like the utter absence of hubris and in that absence something else flows into the vacated cavity--exactly what that is, something close to humility, is what is experienced

likewise, the idea of a tear, of crying, seemed possible, as a response one could have--I say this because in the last thirty days, not only could I not cry but I could not conceive of crying--so to have the idea emerge and to think it could be possible is again something new, different and welcomed as a return to feeling fully human, fully alive, fully capable of engagement--for the record, I didn't cry nor was there an urge to cry, but the idea is there that it could happen, an idea beyond the basic academic sense

I don't know how to explain it--all day today I have felt like a kid in a candy shop--ideas, creative ideas have been occurring all day long--I have envisioned several different chapters--this is the way it used to be--and today, for the first time since starting meds, I have seen my mind work on a creative level as it did before meds--again, for the record, dosage has not been altered or changed--I cannot tell you how exciting it is to be able to think, to have thought happen, to branch, to mind map naturally--to have again a sense of flow in thought, a sense of melody, to be able to think lyrically--this is how it was before--for thirty days I've lived with that ability absence--to feel it return, as it has today, all day long is just beyond my ability to describe--grateful joy is perhaps the right way--and I have surrounded myself with wood--knocking and knocking and knocking

699. divine proportion

He took his finger and traced her lips. Applying gentle pressure, he pulled the lower lip down and let his finger lie upon it as upon a ledge, half dry, half wet, as beach and shore, as what was out and what was in. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady. He asked her not to move, to pretend she was marble and he was a sculptor and in this way he would learn by touch an intimacy beyond sight; and with this sensation of tracing, pressing, pulling, with pad and nail, single finger and whole hand he would map every curve and carve upon his memory her features such to know them at night as he knew them in day. With each stroke he made mental note of flesh, bone, warmth and cold, of angles in divine proportion, a symmetry that delighted the eye but bore mathematical beauty into his pores as if his fingers were upon something other than flesh and blood, something beyond this moment in time, beyond the profane of earth and sky as if in structure she was composition, but more than notes, more than musical architecture, more than his humble mind could fathom other than to know this sense was beyond and in that moment, as if moved by hands other than his own, he held her head as if she had been gone a long time and just returned, as if the tremble of his fingers were as ten hearts beating and the water in his eyes the tears of one soul speaking to another. And this is how he kissed her, pressing his lips upon hers and there was a softness, a blending as breath between two blends as hands lace and tongues dance and clocks tick to mute ears.

698. before the window

(ver 2)
He asks her to stand before the window and take off her shirt. Without a smile, she unbuttons her blouse, slips the white cotton from one shoulder and then the other before letting it drop to the wood floor. Stand in profile he says. And look straight ahead. Her nipple grows erect in the chill. Light streams from the window casting her curve in silhouette. He sees not flesh but light and dark and the line, the curve between what was Em and what was not. He tries to draw the line, the curve. But nothing he draws looks remotely like what he sees. He tries again. And again. Paper balls upon the ground. He holds another sheet up. Compares curve to curve through the transparency of light and paper. Then he puts the paper down, takes a breath, his eyes fixed on her budding nipple. The smoothness of the curve. The creamy contrast between light and dark, sharply demarcated without any sense of demarcation. She is both separate and not separate and what he sees could not be drawn. Not drawn any more than a dream could be lassoed or the infinite understood. He notices his own breathing. He notices the quiet. How still she stands. How she has obey without question and how she looks in profile, of infinite curves, of shoulder and back, of thigh and calf. She is as sunrise and nightfall without being either. A tear falls from his cheek and he knows that some things do not need to be understood to be known.

__________

(ver 1)
He asked her to stand before the window and take her shirt off. Without a smile, she unbuttoned her blouse, slipped the white cotton from one shoulder and then the other before letting it drop to the wood floor. Stand in profile he said. And look straight ahead. Her nipple grew erect in the chill. Light streamed from the window casting her curve in silhouette. He saw not flesh but light and dark and the line, or in this case, the curve between what was Em and what was not. He tried to draw the line, or curve. But nothing he drew looked remotely like what he saw. He tried again. And again. Paper balled upon the ground. He held another sheet up. Compared curve to curve through the transparency of light and paper. Then he put the paper down, took a breath, his eyes fixed on her budding nipple. The smoothness of the curve. The creamy contrast between light and dark, sharply demarcated without any sense of demarcation. She was both separate and not separate and what he saw could not be drawn. Not drawn any more than a dream could be lassoed or the infinite understood. He noticed his own breathing. He noticed the quiet. How still she stood. How she had obey without question and how she looked in profile, of infinite curves, of shoulder and back, of thigh and calf. She was as sunrise and nightfall without being either. A tear fell from his cheek and he knew that some things did not need to be understood to be known.

Day: 28

after four weeks:

the good--

thoughts of suicide have all but vanished--the interminable darkness has been virtually absent--initial side-effects have either disappeared or continue to lessen--I have an evenness of mood not known before--I am more outgoing, more extroverted, more talkative--the tone in my voice is kinder, without edge--interaction with others comes naturally, not forced--I read more--my thought processes tend toward solution, toward what matters in moving forward--emotional issues/energy concerning envy, jealousy, vanity, anger, resentment, retribution, sensitivity to personal attack have all been remarkably, although not completely, absent--appetite has been suppressed (I was eating too much before, so this particular side-effect has been welcomed)--thought leans heavily toward reason, logic, order, linear--ratiocination--I am less manipulated by external emotional energy--conflict is handled on a greater objective level than before--I have smiled more in the last month than in the previous year


the not so good--

the pleasure of music has not fully returned--creative thought is still somehow altered, which is to say lacking--it might be more accurate to say the cognitive process itself has been altered of which creativity is only a part--emotional highs have been blunted along with the blunting of emotional lows--emotion overall has been confined to a narrow middle ground--emotional intensity is missing as too emotive empathy, although empathy on a logical plane exists as before--I experience poetry differently than before and my desire to read and write it is less--thought within my own mind feels less lyrical, less melodic--the feeling is a sense of blandness, of neutrality, of detachment


overall observations--

so far, the good outweighs the not good--the changes I have experienced using Sertraline have allowed me to function in ways I could not function before--the meds are not a cure-all--effort on my part is as important in returning to health--the process is ongoing and relatively speaking, we are still early in the process--there have been bumps in the road and I expect that there will be more, which is to say life happens, as it does to all of us--I am encouraged, cautiously optimistic, and I am under no illusions that much work is still to be done--the overall feeling, as of today, which was not there one month ago is: I can get there from here--I have returned to the view of life as a garden--it must be watered, weeded, sunned--on a daily basis--I have seen a separation between passion and emotion, which is to say, although my emotional register has been rather limited, passion on a personal and professional level seems unaffected--I need to explore this issue/concept with more awareness--my grasp of what is happening on this level is vague--what is passion without emotion--is there a range of emotion that is operating that I am unfamiliar with--something, on a very subtle level, is operating, something just beyond my grasp to comprehend, similar to a word on the tip of the tongue, something you know you know but just can't put your finger on

Day: 25-27

day twenty-five:

I am fighting a two-front war--on one front, my individual circumstances; on the other, chemistry--resources were stretched today--still vulnerable--still fragile

bad day--individual circumstances overwhelmed progress--emotional reactivity slowly returning--drugged feeling virtually gone



day twenty-six:

libido unaffected--ejaculation still more difficult, albeit possible, than premed--the mechanics of ejaculation are different--lacking premed force--I would still characterize the event as more ejaculation than orgasm but there seems to be positive movement in the premed direction--desire to buy books returning--low levels of anxiety, which I consider healthy, returning--sensation on crown of the head is unchanged--appetite remains suppressed--I ate only one meal yesterday, about 3pm, with no desire to eat before or after--and today, as it approaches 3pm, not having eaten in twenty-four hours, there is still no appetite--emotional reactivity, although greater now than a couple weeks ago, remains low--thought remains more logical than emotive--vocal music is judged or seen on a sliding scale of authenticity--ability to be manipulated by emotion, in song or otherwise, remains very low--in reading the fourth part of Bolano's 2666, the part about the crimes, perhaps some of the darkest reading this side of the holocaust, I've been watching closely how I process/react--have reached no conclusion other than my sense of disgust toward crimes of this nature remains unchanged and although the feelings of disgust are not as emotional as they might have been before, there is a depth to the logical response of injustice that seems stronger, clearer--as if I am able to comprehend better without the filter of emotion clouding conclusion--a sense of outrage based on fact rather than visceral reaction--the more I read Bolano, the more impressed I am

creative thought still lacking--the mind does not branch or mind map as if did before--one idea or thought does not immediately lead to two or three possibilities--thought occurs and then sits--it doesn't branch--several thoughts can occur but they are not linked--there is no concatenation--thought becomes discrete and to generate an imaginative thought, similar to ejaculation, requires a great deal of effort, focus and concentration--and what occurs seems more manufactured than natural--there is almost no sense of being drugged--dosage has not changed--the ability of the mind, of thought, of imagination to flow, to weave a narrative, seems to be absent and the feeling is of wires that have been disconnected--as if emotion was a major creative key and without that key, little happens--but it is more than just the absence of emotion--something far greater is occurring on a cognitive level--and I wonder if the absence of sadness is somehow related to the inability to construct and hold a narrative train of thought, the inability to mental mushroom so to speak, to take a single thought and build and therefore, negative thoughts are like orphans--they still occur but there is no, or little, ability to build a narrative around them and without the narrative, affect is vastly minimized--just a theory

for the second day in a row ghosts from my past have reappeared--I refer to ghosts as past negative events or situations that in my premed period were growing in force and strength--until yesterday, the sense of being drugged and the sense of progress had held both at bay and had given hope of a new beginning, a new start, a chance to experience life from this point forward--I fear this is not the case and I fear a slow return, in spite of the meds--to that all consuming darkness--I knew there would be days like yesterday and today--that there would be bumps in the road--but I am reminded today, despair has the gravitational pull of a black hole--one knows light by theory, by memory, but it seems unattainable, beyond reach, for other people but not yourself--I want to be healthy--I have no greater ambition--to experience simple joy and basic happiness with a modicum of peace and tranquility--and perhaps to do meaningful and significant work--to do no harm or as little as possible--today, there was an inkling of premed paranoia--this was the first time this particular energy has reemerged through the meds



day twenty-seven:

although the last two days were trial and tribulation, thoughts of suicide, which were present every day and every night for a period of eight months, maybe longer, premed, these thoughts are/were absent--or I should say, if they occur, the energy is very, very low and the mind feels no need or desire to invest--I've been told that we never get rid of a habit, we only replace it with another--whether this is true is beside the point--thought, as I experience it, is similar--which is to say, the mind, of its own accord, is always thinking--it doesn't just sit idle--this is not to be confused with creative mind mapping thought--in this case, the mind finds an object and almost relentlessly obsesses upon that object in the most detailed and subtle way, as if looking at the same thing from many different angles--what I find interesting, and this is where I think of habit, whereas before the only fixation, morning and night, was suicide--that fixation has been replaced with sexual fantasy--and I wonder, again, if the mind is simply not seeking a place, an extreme, that once there, is like a panic room--a place, that once there, is so encompassing as to thwart all the fears I am afraid to confront--as if the mind seeks an extreme--suicide or sex--antipodes--both, albeit from different directions, based on the same subconscious need--a drive unspoken--a need for protection--a need to focus so intently on one thing and one thing only as to eliminate the possibility of any other thought--as if the mind can, by its own processes, suck the oxygen from the brain--some form of instinct toward self-preservation that lies just below the level of conscious thought

appetite remains strangely suppressed--I have all but given up eating breakfast--there is simply no hunger till early afternoon--this is the one side-effect that seems to be increasing--yesterday, again, I ate only one meal, around 3pm, although I did snack lightly around 9pm--this eating behavior is in direct opposition to premed eating, when I seemed to snack all day long in addition to eating three meals

sensation on crown of head remains--drowsiness all but absent as too the sense of being drugged--on issues of conflict, there is no need or desire to find or fix blame, only the logical desire to move forward, to fix whatever is broken--there seems to be no emotional energy when wronged, no need for retribution or to defend oneself in the way that assigns blame to someone else, even when someone else is wrong--assigning blame is processed as a waste of time--periods of melancholy still emerge from time to time and for the life of me I cannot root out their origin--the melancholy is not as intense as premed nor as lasting, but there is no mistaking that dark energy--and there is the sense that the darkness is adapting to the meds and growing stronger--resistant to the antibiotic so to speak--if so, this is an ominous development--perhaps most perplexing is this continuing blankness of mind, the utter absence of creative spark, effort notwithstanding--I wonder to what extent there is a relation between the meds ability to ward off depressive thought and the meds ability to dampen creative thought, imaginative thought--what was originally experienced as emotional dullery feels as if it is or has shifted to a more subtle imaginative blunting, which, for the record, as been there from the first day, but with the reemergence of some emotion, seems more stark in being left behind, of there appearing to be little progress on the cognitive/creative/imaginative front

in the first few weeks the feeling of being drugged was such to dull all thought and all emotion--as the effects of the meds/side-effects lessen, so too the ability of the meds alone to hold melancholy at arms length--taking ownership of one's own thought processes and becoming more skillful, more aware in the moment is going to be a critical part of the healing process--the meds alone will not do it

697. untranslatable

Em stood before the window, looking upon the trees in morning light, branches swaying in a light breeze. From inside the cabin the brook could not be heard, although she would say later, that she did.

She didn't hear him come across the room nor feel his breath on the nape of her neck, his humid kisses keeping time with the rhythm of his chest, gentle kisses of exhale, warm as the tongue she wanted to taste, to hold, to feel brush against her ear. His sweater pressed against hers. There was that softness between them. And there was the silence of thought not spoken, of eyes not opened. She leaned her head back and pressed against him. He was strong, lean, hard and he smelled of milled soap, unscented, clean as the breeze off the mountain. The longer they spent together the more they spoke in touch and look and the less in word. And there was a mutual understanding that all the words in all the books could not say what the kisses, the embraces, the melding of flesh between them, that soft warmth of body and yet a warmth too in the touch but beyond the touch could, did. He was her fingerprint, uniquely what he was to her, and what they shared, they shared alone, a language of two, untranslatable.

Day: 24

all of my life I have been inclined to take abuse without standing up for myself for fear of offending the person who had offended me--if I was being yelled at or criticized then, so my thinking on some subconscious was, it must be my fault--I acted as if everyone else was an authority on whatever it was they were saying and I had no ground to stand upon, even when I knew their information was wrong--not to upset the other person became first and foremost in my mind--I only wanted peace, to be accepted and I was willing to pay any price for a moment, an hour or a day without drama--sometimes the only way to achieve this peace was to withdraw, to be alone, to shun interaction with anyone because to interact invited conflict, disagreement, yelling and words said that could not be taken back--as a result, I have lived virtually my entire life in fear, fear of offending--I knew the fear was unhealthy and irrational, but like many emotions, especially strong ones, the flow of energy was greater than the ability to channel it and one is consumed in a sort of madness--caught in a web, knowing one is caught in a web, but helpless to do anything about it--in this world, one does not take initiative because to act is to invite rebuke and nothing hurts as much as rejection, as consistent, unerring negative feedback--life wants to live, to survive and so in this environment, almost by instinct, for self-preservation, there is a withdrawal from interaction and a fear of those moments when interaction cannot be avoided--so one learns to be silent and unseen--the good child syndrome (good not for the sake of good--silent not out of respect)--and over time, the silence becomes not willed or chosen as much as the natural state--the mind simply shuts down--if there is no thought then there can be no narrative that further damages the self and there can be no interaction that can lead to a sense of inferiority--speak only when spoken to and then say nothing that could invite controversy--in other words, have no opinions or at least none that you are wiling to share

since I have been on meds, this fear of standing up for myself, for my views and doing so without fear, without exerting some effort to overcome past habit, but rather a logical and natural need to deal in fact, to see the situation objectively, to understand or comprehend the difference between the self and the world outside of the self had been nothing less than remarkable--when someone places an opposing view before me, I feel no threat--I am able to see the position without some personal/emotional involvement or attachment and I don't confuse the self, the value of the self with the outcome of opinion or argument--in a very real sense, what is right takes precedence over who is right--now, this is a philosophy I have known for a long, long time and have taught for many years--but to know something on paper or even in the mind and to know it within the integrity of mind/body/spirit (for lack of a better way to put it) is quite a different thing--in short, there is a feeling of mental health I can't say I've ever felt before and just as the darkness was most evident in moments of non-darkness, so too this sense of health is seen and known in contrast to everything I've known before

day by day, my confidence, which the darkness had completely eradicated, is returning--the return is based not on affirmation but grounded in day to day experiences, of decisions, of cognitive and emotional processing of daily tasks and conflicts--I am using affirmation, but what is affirmed is the experience, not the idea of fake it till you make it--each positive experience and interaction is like a deposit in the bank account of myself--my belief in my abilities--to be of value, of worth--capable of making positive contributions to the world I inhabit--what I have just said I could not have said one month ago

I do have one fear--namely that I will wake up one day, or it will just hit me out of the blue like the darkness used to do without rhyme or reason, and all the progress I have made will have evaporated and life as I knew it will return

Day: 23

I am still amazed with the issue of irritation--I see it rise and watch it pass through me without eliciting a reaction or response--this is not me thinking differently--this is a direct effect of the meds, which has been in effect since I started taking the meds--the experience is odd in that I can see the irritation rise just as it did before the meds--the same things that irritated me then still irritate me now--so there has been no change in that regard--I am still the same person on that level--what is different is reaction--where before there would be an almost uncontrollable surge of energy, a surge I'd work very hard not to act upon but would still show on my face and in my tone of voice--the kind of tone where you are speaking in a whisper but the person you are speaking to asks you to stop yelling at them--that kind of tone--now, on these meds, although the irritation is still there, I can see it, there is no urge to react to it--or I should say the urge to react is so low as to be insignificant and I have to exert almost no energy to keep from a petty response to matters that just don't matter--within my personal relationships, this change has made a remarkable difference--the overall sense is of a more healthy self, a more well-adjusted self--the sense of this lack of reaction being a drugged 'reactionlessness' appears to be blending away, not completely, but like the sensation on the crown of my head, which is still there, I am starting to have to bring awareness to the influence of medication as to behavior

the other change in behavior which has been very positive and quiet remarkable to observe since it was not an expected or anticipated change is what I would call drive or initiative--when something needs to be done that was not on my agenda to do, that perhaps comes up unexpectedly, in the past where I might experience resentment and drag my feet, now, almost without thought, I just do it--this ties in to what I can only call a more logical thought process, a more task oriented view--this is not a subtle change in outlook or behavior but a rather significant one--as I look back on the last several years if not the last many, many years i wonder how my life would have been different had I been wired this way before--I am also becoming aware that what I have suffered from, to one degree or another, has been with me at least from high school and perhaps, although I am not certain, prior to that--my father suffered greatly from many of my same symptoms--there is a very real possibility I'm dealing with an hereditary disease, although I feel this is just idle speculation which is neither here nor there

on another note which I don't know what to make of, but seems to be a healthy change, my almost manic need to buy books has dropped away as too my need/desire to go to the bookstore almost everyday--bookstores still bring me great peace and I liken them as chapels but since I've been on meds, my desire has turned toward actually reading the books I've purchased rather than buying more--and believe me, I've bought a library worth of books--virtually all unread to one degree or another--of interest is this: I can see the thought to buy a new book rise and the next thought, on logical grounds, dismisses it--I can't ever recall shutting down the rising need/desire to purchase a book that caught my fancy--but with all the books I have, literally hundreds if not more, all of which are waiting to be read, my current med induced perception is it is just not logical or needed while at the same time a desire to actually read what I have grows stronger

there is a sense of adjustment--of being well-adjusted--and it almost scares me to write for fear that in the writing it will disappear or slip away like a dream, as if by speaking about it you jinx yourself--but this sense of being well-adjusted is unlike any sense I've ever had before--there is a calmness and a view and an operating logic that is hard to explain--I am knocking on wood that my perception of these changes this morning endure--that I am not simply deceiving myself on a good day

day by day as I observe these changes in myself and compare them to how I reacted prior to the meds, my tolerance for personality in others has expanded with a greater compassion--to have an awareness that the heart and the action may very well be different and the person may be beyond ability to rise above their own chemistry--I know and I am humbled in that my own changes (still knocking on wood) are not because of willpower or discipline or some zen-like training/enlightenment or awareness, but because I have introduced a psychoactive chemical into my system--without this chemical change, I cannot imagine that I would be any different than before--regardless of my circumstances professionally or personally--this is not to say that I could not have improved my situation by some degree, only that these changes I am experiencing now seem beyond simple self-improvement by an order of magnitude, exponential changes so to speak

and on day 23, my head bobbed to music--there has been no bobbing since I started on the meds--to be clear, this is not a complete return to premed experience, but it is the most significant development or step in a positive direction to date--I am hopeful this development continues--likewise, there is a sense of playing with fire, that before, music could move me so, bring me to tears for almost no conscious reason--so I'm cautiously watching this development--can I regain my ability to enjoy music, recover that key to creative thought without it destroying me

on the sexual front, I was able to achieve the third orgasm since starting meds, the first of which occurred on day twenty--the first achieved ejaculation (I say ejaculation rather than orgasm because it did not feel so much like an orgasm as much as a sense of simply being milked) required such a force of will, focus, concentration and effort as to be completely without any pleasure and although there was a supreme sense of accomplishment, as if my willpower had defeated the meds, I knew, although a positive step, that this was not triumph--two days ago, a second ejaculation was achieved--this time with less effort, but still the sense was more ejaculation than orgasm--the third 'orgasm' last night was again a degree easier, so progress in being made, but the sense is still more biological functioning on a mechanical level than the pure magic of orgasm--still, the last four days have seen positive moment and I can't complain about moving forward, moving in the right direction

Day: 22

wrote this morning with the first inkling or trickle of genuine emotion--the feeling was slight and subtle but unmistakable and I held it in my mind as one would a lost heirloom found. A ray of sunshine though the cloud of meds--on perhaps a related note, I awoke this morning with a full erection, which is how I would always awake before meds--erections have not been a problem on Zoloft, only orgasm, but still, my mornings prior to this morning were different than before--yesterday, although the desire was not there, I listened to music and I felt there was some movement, some emotional movement, very slight, but noticeable that was not there before

sensation on crown of head is more intense today and is noticeable in and of itself, which is a change from the past several days, where, like the breath, one only notices it with attention--feels more like a bruise today and this is the first day I would use the word pain, albeit very lightly, with the sensation--the sense of physical dissociation (a sense of separation between body and mind) seems less today--when I look at my hand for example, it looks like my hand rather than a sense of me looking at a hand that happens to be mine--today has been the best day so far with regard to a sense of body/mind integrity--calmness in the face of adversity remains in place and I cannot tell exactly to what extent this is cognitive change as opposed to the med wall--it could be either or a combination--I seem not to be able to split the two

my mind appears to sit in neutral, largely thoughtless without prodding, as if I must engage it--I have had to actively ask myself questions in order to get thought moving and keep it moving--this is not an entirely new experience but what highlights this aspect of my mental wiring is the lack of keys I had before, which is to say, alcohol (which I've given up), music (not the same) and visual input (fractals and such)--without these keys, I'm left to the simple device of questions--on this same note, I continue to read at a pace not known before--in just a few days I've read over 400 pages of Bolano's 2666--something unheard of prior to meds--I was forced to read this way in grad school when one had to read a book a day--I developed a hatred, after three years, of this kind of reading--reading for plot, for information--as if the mind was nothing more than a hard drive--here is what has been interesting: prior to meds, I would read, sometimes even just a single paragraph and my mind would race with ideas as to my own writing and from this inspiration, a chapter would be written--not once on meds, with the hundreds and hundreds of pages I've read in the last three weeks has an idea caused me to stop and write--idea creation, to state the obvious, has changed--I refuse to label it as good or bad so that I might remain openminded to new ways of thinking, of embracing a new set of tools to accomplish the same task, but I would be less than honest if I didn't note the concern--experienced second orgasm with slightly less effort than two days ago--still not back to pre-med status but another small step in that direction--there is less of a drugged out feeling today than on any previous day, and I might cautiously add I don't feel drugged at all, which would be the very first day I can make that claim, although I'm not fully convinced of how I am processing my own self-awareness--I can say without any reservations: I feel good--for the record, days 1-4 were on 60mg of Sertraline (aka Zoloft)--I broke 100mg pills in half and took the larger half; every day since has been on 100mg--I've been given the leeway to drop back down to 50mg--which I will keep as an option depending on progression of side-effects--as of now, progress is being made on all fronts and I see no need to mess with dosage

there is an intuitive sense, and it may very well be pure imagination, but there is a very real sense of what might be called neuroplasticity--this may be happening in conjunction with the meds or it might simply be my own body creating workarounds with regard to the meds--then again, it might not be either or it could be a combination or I may have simply completely mislabeled what is occurring--let me record it this way: in the face of issues or problems or challenges not only is there a different emotional reaction but there is also a different cognitive reaction--a feeling that my own mind, outside of the meds, is asserting itself, trying to rewire itself in positive ways--of course I am fully aware that everything I've said in this paragraph could be pure imagination and fantasy--but I've seen the power of prophecy, especially as it relates to self-prophecy--sometimes the right question is not so much of truth but of skillfulness or usefulness

696. looking

She knew he was looking as she knew the warmth on her arm and her reading slowed down or perhaps idled in the thought of being watched, of letting the silence of his looking wash over her. She didn't look directly at him but kept steady on the page so as not to break the spell but from the corner of her eye she could see his shape, feel it somehow as if he had marshaled all the tenderness of the night before into what was not a stare, not something hard and direct or even something calling attention to itself. She could not explain the warmth. His look was not of lust, he was not undressing her, nor, she thought, was it a premeditated look, a look with an agenda or even a look to understand or comprehend. The look was as a mother looking at a sleeping child, which she thought was a strange thing to think since Trev was not a woman, not a mother, but there was something beyond gender, beyond role in how he was watching her. Even the word watch seemed wrong. He was doing something different than watching, doing something more, something other. Just what that was she could not say other than it felt like the gentle warmth of a placid ocean upon the shore. There was that peace about how he sat across the room, quietly, almost without movement, as invisible as an owl. She turned a page she had not read and again allowed her mind to focus on the warmth. This warmth, she decided, was not just her imagination, although surely her mind was spinning, but the warmth was real. It had started in her cheek, just above her dimple, the one he had brushed his lips upon as if she were canvas. It felt like sunshine. But then it began to move, to grow and she felt a lightness in the grasp of his eye. The feeling moved to her chest and she felt her nipples harden, become erect and the feeling was as she had never felt, a non-sexual sexual response and she wondered if this was love or something else and she wondered if he could see her chest blossom, bud, and if he could, what he thought. For what she felt was something more than physical desire, although her body was responding of its own accord and the feeling seemed more natural than manufactured. It seemed as if a part of nature, of the trees outside and the brook that ran nearby, as if in his looking there was a flow, a tapping into some rhythm that existed on a spiritual plane or a plane other than just the senses.

Day: 21

good visit with the doctor today--everything discussed openly--we both agreed that progress was occurring and, side-effects notwithstanding, that we would continue on the present course for four more weeks--I will continue to journal the day to day experiences and do my best to explore as openly and honestly as I can

physical sensation on the crown of head remains--as does an exaggerated drowsiness after eating--appetite slightly suppressed as before--slight numbness of nipples and penis continue although libido remains strong, and with the anorgasmic state, is perhaps fueled--sexual fantasy remains on subtle ground and arousal occurs not with the overt, not even as much with the visual as with touch and smell--it is as if what excites me has changed--not completely, not absolutely, but in the shadows, in the subtle ways of scent and memory, of textile and touch--the curve still remains the most beautiful thing I know--and I wonder if there is not some universal truth in the curve that supersedes any and all medical manipulation

sleep is not and has not been affected--levels of energy, outside of the episodes of drowsiness after eating have returned to normal, which is to say have increased from the depressed state--the feeling of detachment remains, however today the feeling was more a sense of calmness--still, my sense of sound is somewhat muted--music in stereo sounds as if in mono, which I can't tell whether this is an auditory issue or an issue where the emotional track is simply missing and therefore the experience is altered--either way, music remains changed for me and it fails to elicit the creative spark as it did before--my mind continues to function on an analytic plane and concerns itself primarily with issues of logic--I procrastinate less and when confronted with a task, and it feels even strange to me as I am in motion, I act immediately

with detachment and lack of emotional reactivity to stimuli, one has the oddest sense of being objective with the subjective self--as if one hears oneself as other when speaking and there appears, in experience, a separation between the thinking self and the acting self--the body becomes mechanical, an instrument, and the mind becomes free, unattached, as something other

on an interesting side note with regard to music, specifically movie scores--in this med induced relationship or lack thereof to the emotional qualities of music, unskillful use by a director is noticed--a feeling of intrusion--of manipulation--not always, but the use of music seems so poorly used so much of the time--like a clodding dance partner--something added that subtracts--the sense of poetry is the same--the mind penetrates, seeks, needs, and tolerates only authenticity--obtuse and abstract thought is eschewed in favor of what is simple and clear--as if everything could be just that--simple and clear--and that what is not simple and clear is somehow, in someway, false or if not false then not wholly true

695. like cream

She was reading by the window, knees pulled up, only natural light upon the page. And upon her hair. This is what he noticed first. Her hair glimmering, flowing from forehead to shoulder and in his mind he could smell the freshness as he had that morning when her smile rose above him as dawn upon day. She read without expression and there was a quiet in the room one experiences in a museum and he thought her skin looked as smooth as a statue, of polished marble, of an inscrutable visage. He thought of cream and how rich she moved upon the sheets, a decadent languor of purposeful confidence. She was like that, like cream pouring.

She turned a page and he watched. Her long fingers moving with grace, but not grace alone, something more of earth than heaven, of soil rather than sky, fingers like the sun upon his seed, bringing him forth and full, racing his heart in flow, like cream pouring into his eyes, deeper, into his mind, deeper still into those places only she had ever explored and he knew then, while she was reading and turning pages, bathed in natural light that what he was before her and what he was now was as a child that now knew happiness and joy and the interminable sadness of all things finite.

Day: 20

playful flirtatiousness, virtually my calling card over the last five years, is gone--has been gone these last twenty days--this is not a conscious choice, a matter of not engaging but rather a change in neurochemistry that not only changes behavior but changes something more significant that I am at pains to clearly define--I have always enjoyed what I call the mental dancing of online flirting--it came to me naturally, easily, effortlessly--this desire or impulse or train of thought or whatever you want to call it, is simply not there--whatever that spark was, it is no more--I suppose this will get me in less trouble and offend fewer people but I can't help but feel that a fundamental aspect of my personality has been taken from me--now here is what is interesting, in person I am more playful than I have ever been but online that playfulness is just gone--I suspect that this playfulness is/was tied to the creative functions of the brain and as the meds have shut down one, so too the other--I have also noticed a change in my blogging comments--over the past five years, almost religiously, I have responded, almost immediately, to virtually every comment I ever received--in excess of twenty thousand--yet, in the last twenty days I have let comments go without a response or the response has come at a later time--why this change in attitude or behavior I cannot pinpoint, but this has been a consistent attitudinal change over the last three weeks--I also find that I do not follow other blogs as closely as I once did--again, a rather major change in my online behavior

I am reading faster than I have ever read before--almost skimming in the way one is taught with speed reading--where in the past I would stop and examine words I was unfamiliar with, now I just skip over them, or plow past them--again this speaks to what I find almost astounding, which is a hundred and eighty degree turn on the issue of plot--until three weeks ago I never cared about plot--I am at a loss to explain this change in mental outlook--and let it be noted, these are not conscious changes on my part--I have not decided to do anything differently--and it is in this way, this observing, of these changes that have occurred that I feel like a puppet pulled on the strings of pyschoactive drugs--what part of me is not capricious--what part is simply not biology and chemistry at work--and is personality simply the luck of the draw and we play the only hand we're given--or we take drugs to get a new deal

had my first post-med orgasm today--it required such a force of will, effort and concentration as to be virtually without pleasure--although when I ejaculated, the smile of victory, of the triumph of the will over the mind and the body, made my cheeks ache--I would like to think this is the first sign that my body may be adjusting to the meds and that my ability to be orgasmic is and will return

Day: 18-19

day eighteen:

nothing of interest to report--neither highs nor lows

watching impulse--and language--and the processing of events--the storification of impulse, language and event--the need for narrative--to construct meaning--to what end--the question is always to what end--by what code, story or narrative--upon what stage do we dance--can we feel the wood under our feet--


day nineteen:

emotional reactivity remains low--the meds give the ability to deal with frustration and irritation without becoming overly frustrated or irritated--this perhaps opens the door to rewire reactivity through experience, meds notwithstanding--poetry and ornate prose still fail to capture my interest as before--likewise music is all but missing in my life--I find no pleasure in it, which is probably related to emotional dullery--creative thought still lacking and some of my own writing, especially the 1944 series seems quite alien--libido remains high in spite of anorgasmia--perhaps as a byproduct, sexual fantasy has become much more subtle, more selective as the elements of touch deepen--I have become more light-hearted and playful

without the emotional reactivity and personalization, my ability to absorb and address conflict is greater--issues of pettiness are simply not acted upon--emotional reflection/mirroring is absent--the energy passes through me and neither harbors itself nor elicits engagement and the feeling is similar to watching a sporting event in which you have no vested interested in the teams playing and you are able to objectively follow the action--thoughts of the future are starting to emerge but remain fragile--the desire to workout has actually occurred

overall attitude is much improved--negative thoughts have become less sticky, less relentless--I cannot quite tell if I am feeling less drugged or whether I'm just getting used to the feeling--odd sensation on the crown of the head has remained consistent from the first day--appetite remains slightly suppressed, which is to say although I eat well when I eat, there is no desire to snack between meals--this was not the case before--there is still an odd drowsiness that occurs after eating--no issues with sleep--sound still has an eerie and subtle muted quality almost as if I am hearing myself hear

finished the first chapter/book of 2666--it was originally planned by the author to be published as five separate books over five years--his literary executor (Bolano was dying and would die before publication) decided otherwise--the writing is unlike anything I've read recently

Groboto